


Vanished Marvels

by BoxOnTheNile



Series: To the Names of Our Wounds [2]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Multi, That's my new favorite tag, Walking Disaster Samuel Ortez
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-15
Updated: 2018-04-15
Packaged: 2019-04-23 03:05:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14323194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BoxOnTheNile/pseuds/BoxOnTheNile
Summary: Holy shit, he'sanxious.Simmons is in a kitchen with a literal mass murderer, and that mass murderer isfilled with anxiety.This is the best day.





	Vanished Marvels

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hylian_reptile](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hylian_reptile/gifts).



> I finished it before the new season fuck yeah
> 
> This is hylian_reptile's fault and _they know why_.
> 
> Title is a lyric from Adventures in Solitude by The New Pornographers, and it is a Locus Song if I ever heard one. I listened to it a lot while writing this, actually.

Simmons is usually the first one awake in the mornings. He’s a morning person, which fucking baffles everyone else; not even Carolina likes being up before seven if she has a choice. So when Simmons makes it to the kitchen before anyone else and sees a figure hunched at the breakfast bar of their new ~~base~~ house, he hesitates, but only for a second. “Wash, if Tucker finds out you stayed up all night again, he’s gonna-”

It’s not Wash passed out on the counter. There’s long, dark hair covering their face and Wash is blond, so there’s a _stranger_ in the kitchen and Simmons is about to lose his mind. But then he sees a pile of armor in the corner and- oh. That’s _Locus_.

They’d extended a pretty open invitation to Locus a few weeks earlier, when Wash was released from Doctor Grey’s care. No one had really expected him to actually show up, though.

He shifts with a tiny, distressed sound, and Simmons squares his shoulders. He's woken up Wash from nightmares at this counter a dozen times, he can wake up Locus, too.

He grabs a pillow from the couch and chucks it at the (ex-)mercenary’s face.

Locus jolts awake and flips the pillow in a perfect judo throw before staring at it for a second. He turns to look at Simmons.

Oh no, he's _hot_. Smooth skin and a symmetrical face, down to the x-shaped scar marring perfect cheekbones. “Captain Simmons?”

And, look, Simmons is still new to the ‘admitting he likes guys’ thing. “You're too pretty to sleep on counters.” His brain catches up and his face burns. “Oh my god.”

Locus’s eyes dart to his armor and back. “I apologize, I meant to be gone before this-”

“Have you slept in our kitchen _before?_ ” Simmons’s voice goes up an octave. Now that Simmons has been looking for a moment, he can see the dull shine to Locus’s hair, the way the ends frizz, the sheen of oil across the bridge of his nose. He looks awful, frankly, in a way that he's seen before- in Wash, a few years ago, when the Freelancer was paranoid and wracked with guilt and fear. 

He wasn't so scary like this. It was Wash all over again, in a way- scary badass in armor, but strip away steel and kevlar and you're left with something fragile and cracked. “That's- no. New Base Rule, right now: you can't sleep here without staying for breakfast. So sit the fuck down, I'm starting coffee.” There's a flicker of a grimace in Locus’s expression- he has no poker face, this is the _best day of Simmons’s life-_ and he backtracks. “Orrr I think there was tea in one of our supply shipments?”

Simmons knows they don't have a kettle, so he sticks a mug of water in the microwave and pointedly ignores any sounds of dismay. He drops in a teabag- Earl Grey, he thinks?- and hands it over.

The silence is oppressive and familiar, the silence of two awkward, anxious people in each other's space. And Simmons tries to remember those early days with Wash, but those had been dubbed a Blue Team Problem™, so he doesn't know how to approach this. But, but, he vaguely remembers Tucker dragging Wash through basic self care, and Locus does look like he needs that. 

Simmons starts the coffee pot and faces Locus again. He's trying to wrangle his hair into an elastic Simmons isn't certain he had a minute ago, but it's ratted enough he's struggling. 

“First door on the right.”

Locus looks up at him, and Simmons realizes his eyes are grey. It starts to register exactly how close he is to someone who tried to kill him once. “What?”

“The bathroom. Er, Red Team’s bathroom, at least. The point is, um, I don't? Think? Grif will mind if you use his shampoo. It's got some kind of detangling thing in it. And it's early enough Wash hasn't gotten to the hot water, yet, so you won't be rushed.” 

Locus lowers his hands slowly, elastic slipping around his wrist. “I don't want to. Impose. I've already…” He seems to struggle for words. 

Holy shit, he's _anxious._ Simmons is in a kitchen with a literal mass murderer, and that mass murderer is _filled with anxiety._

_This is the best day._

“Just go shower.” 

And Simmons can almost see Locus trying to justify saying no, in the way his brow furrows, how his mouth twists down. But he has Locus backed into a metaphorical corner, so he stands and heads into the house, hesitant and uncomfortable. 

Simmons wonders if Tucker felt this way, years ago, horrible and proud and weirdly, fiercely protective.

The shower starts after a long moment and Simmons darts back into his room. The lump of blankets on his bed snores. “Grif,” hisses. “Grif, wake the fuck up.” The blankets groan. “Locus is here.”

Grif's head emerges, hair sticking up everywhere. “What?”

“Locus is using our shower and I need you to cut his hair.”

There's two slow blinks as Grif processes this information. “You saw his hair? You saw his _face_? Is he hot?”

“Worse. He's pretty.”

They turn in unison to stare accusingly at the wall. Red Team has never forgiven Wash for being adorable. 

Grif extracts himself from their blankets and gets to his feet. He has scissors tucked away in their closet _specifically for hair_ (apparently it matters?) and no one else can touch them. 

He hands them to Simmons, says something about having to pee, and wanders down the hall towards the Blue bathroom. Simmons returns to the kitchen for lack of anything else to do, setting the scissors on the counter. He's not allowed to start breakfast- Tucker is the best cook between them, seriously, fuck Blue Team- so he checks the coffee and puts a saucepan of milk on the stove to heat because the last thing Caboose needs is caffeine. Locus wanders back in a couple minutes later, orange towel around his shoulders, hair damp but clean. He's refusing to meet Simmons’s eyes and, yeah, he gets that Anxiety Mood.

Grif steps into the kitchen behind him. “Fuck, you are pretty.” Locus whips around, but Grif just grins and waves. “Go sit down, man, it's fine.” 

Locus sits, slowly, cups his hands around his tea. It has to be cold by now, but he clings to the ceramic like a lifeline. Grif drops a comb he stole from the Blues next to him and goes to reclaim his scissors. 

Locus sees them and is on his feet. "Don't."

"Locus, your hair is a disaster. I'm just taking off the split ends."

"No. It's mine."

"Dude, calm down, I know what I'm doing."

"Stay over there, Grif."

"Just come here!"

"What's going on?" Wash's voice is still very hoarse and very quiet. The other three men in the room freeze, and Locus's eyes move, unerringly, to the bandages still taped to either side of Wash's throat. 

Grif throws the scissors on the counter and tackles Locus to the floor. Both of them start shouting. Simmons holds up a mug of coffee and Wash shuffles to his side. 

“Whozzat?” he whispers, nodding at scuffle. Grif has his knee hooked around Locus’s thigh, and Locus has Grif in a choke hold.

“Locus. He was passed out on the counter. We're trying to cut his hair.”

Wash stares at Simmons for a second, looks _utterly resigned,_ and dumps half the sugar bowl in his coffee. Grif screams something about being a baby before Locus shoves the towel in his mouth. “He fits right in.”

**Author's Note:**

> this is in my docs as "Get Fucked Ortez". 
> 
> I've been on ao3 _for five years_ and just found out about the rich text editor. Turns out I fuckin hate it anyway, so nbd i guess.
> 
> Shamelessly plugging my dear friend HappyLeech! I got Leechy to watch rvb with me, and she almost immediately started a Texts From Last Night blog for it, @textsfromchorus. She knows what she's doing, too, as she's been the sole mod for @textsfromwatchpointgibraltar for two years now. Go find it! It's good! You will love it!


End file.
